A heartfelt journey back to the hallowed grounds that shaped my husband

For as long as I’ve known Roger (which feels like several lifetimes now), there have been three constants in our marriage: his unwavering love for me, his peculiar habit of losing socks in the laundry, and his undying pride in being a Queen’s College old boy.

The Legend of Queen’s College

If I had a rand for every time Roger has told me the story about how his father “almost fetched him” from Queen’s College, I could probably fund a new school wing bearing our name. According to Queen’s College lore (as recited by my husband at virtually every family gathering), the best thing his father ever did was not fetch him when homesickness struck. “Character building,” Roger would say with that gleam in his eye, while I’d quietly wonder if this explained his strange attachment to dormitory-style bedding well into his fifties.

The comradery, independence, and values instilled during those formative years truly have shaped Roger into the man I married. Every time we’ve driven past Queen’s College, he transforms into a living, breathing historical tour guide: “That’s where I stayed,” “That’s where we played rugby,” “That’s where I broke my arm” The stories are endless, and I’ve heard them all… repeatedly.

The Reunion Beckons

When the invitation for his 40th reunion arrived, Roger’s excitement was palpable. “I am NOT missing this,” he declared, with the same fervor usually reserved for announcing sports scores. And so, our Queen’s College pilgrimage began as we packed our bags for a weekend in Queenstown.

We arrived Friday at 11 am, just in time for the Trooping of the Colours ceremony. Roger was particularly proud of this tradition as his class was involved in the first Trooping in 1983. “I played the trumpet in the band,” he mentioned casually, though I’ve heard this fact approximately 983 times. Nevertheless, watching how the school maintained this splendid tradition was genuinely impressive, and seeing Roger beam with pride was worth every repetition of that trumpet story.

Old Boys, New Stories

Lunch brought the first wave of reunions, and I finally put faces to the names I’d heard in stories for decades. It was fascinating watching these distinguished gentlemen transform back into schoolboys within minutes of seeing each other. The formal dinner that evening was a beautiful blend of tradition and revelry. The term “Old Boys” seemed particularly fitting as I watched grown men recounting pranks from four decades ago with the enthusiasm of teenagers.

Roger reconnected with his past self that night, and I caught glimpses of the boy he once was beneath the man I love.

Adventure Calls (Despite the Hangover)

Saturday morning dawned and we had a brilliant idea: “Let’s go explore on our bikes!” Considering the amount of reminiscing (and wine) from the previous night, I questioned our judgment, but adventure called.

We discovered an incredibly steep gravel Jeep track on the edge of Queenstown. The scenery was breathtaking, or perhaps that was just the effect of cycling uphill while nursing what Roger refused to call a hangover (“It’s just dehydration,” he insisted).

The morning mist clung to the landscape, adding an ethereal quality to our ride. The water-logged parts of the trail added an unexpected element of surprise—nothing says “romantic getaway” quite like mud-splattered cycling shorts.

Once we conquered the summit (Roger insists it was a mountain; I maintain it was a very ambitious hill), we discovered the reward: a glorious downhill journey home. Just before reaching the gravel road, we encountered some buck standing in our path, observing us with what I can only describe as judgment for our mud-caked appearance. Still, it was a special moment—nature’s audience for our adventure.

Wildlife and Wild Memories

After returning and addressing our dire need for showers, I suggested visiting the Lawrence de Lange game park on the edge of town. At a mere R50 entrance fee, it turned out to be the bargain of the century. We spotted buck, kudu, snakes, tortoises, zebras, wildebeest, giraffes, and even distant rhinos.

The afternoon found the old boys cheering from the sidelines as Queen’s College’s first team triumphed over Selbourne College. The evening culminated at the local golf club—apparently Queenstown’s premier party venue—with a traditional braai and more “kuiering”

A Touching Farewell

Sunday morning brought an unexpected depth of emotion. As we arrived at the school for a memorial service, we were greeted by the school band entering the amphitheater, their solemn music setting the tone for what would follow.

The new president called out the names of all old boys who had fallen in the two World Wars, and I felt the first stirrings of emotion. When the band played “The Last Post,” tears began to flow freely—not just from me, but from those “tough” old boys all around us.

The reading of names of fallen alumni from the select years (every five years) was particularly moving. One person from each year group laid a wreath while classmates stood in respect. It was a beautiful, poignant gesture that captured the true meaning of brotherhood that Roger has tried to explain to me all these years.

Homeward Bound

After a final coffee with the “boys” (all firmly in their late 50s now), we headed home. The drive gave us time to reflect on the weekend and the institution that had such a profound impact on my husband’s life.

“I think for the next five-year reunion, we should bring our two boys,” I suggested. “They should see this part of their father’s life.”

As we drove away from Queenstown, I realized that Queen’s College hadn’t just shaped Roger’s past—it continues to influence our present and, through our children, perhaps our future too.

And if our sons inherit even a fraction of the pride, principles, and terrible trumpet-playing abilities that Queen’s College instilled in their father, I’ll consider that a legacy worth celebrating.

~ The proud wife of an even prouder Queen’s College Old Boy